Counter Strike

Home > Other > Counter Strike > Page 6
Counter Strike Page 6

by Beth Rhodes


  She backed up at her uncle’s words. “No,” she said slowly, shaking her head. This can’t be happening. Her gaze found Kiana, still on the floor…dead? Please not dead.

  Her uncle sighed, snapped his fingers once, and stepped aside.

  The other guy came right back in, took two steps, and had her arm in his big beefy hand. She jerked against his hold, but he just tightened his grip. Turning her body, she jabbed her elbow into his not-so-soft middle.

  He let out an oomph, and she sank her teeth into his hand.

  This time, he jerked, backhanding her with his free arm.

  Pain rocketed through her as she landed on the hardwood floor. Missy tasted blood, her bottom lip split. Her uncle talked softly. She spit, forcing down the urge to vomit. Blowing out a breath, she lifted herself up and got to her knees. Get out.

  But a hand gripped her shoulder, hard…and jerked her back.

  And a shot rang out.

  She screamed and covered her head, a spray of blood moistening her skin. The thump of the tall man’s body, landing on the floor behind her, echoed her heartbeat.

  “Pack a bag, Margarita,” her uncle ordered harshly. “Or I will do it for you.”

  “Reet!” she said, emphasizing the French version of her name, her great grandmother’s name. “Marguerite. Bellamy.”

  His dark eyes, nothing like her father’s, stayed cold on her gaze. “This is not the time for an adolescent rebellion.”

  “Adolescent. Reb—rebellion,” her voice rose in hysteria. The room tilted beneath her feet. “There’s a dead man on the floor in front of me, whom you killed. You are kidnapping me and taking me back to Mexico.”

  She’d had Jamie’s protection for so long, she’d forgotten what it meant to survive on her own. Once again, she was just a weak, little girl with no power.

  ***

  The big leader with his fierce blue eyes shoved Not-Sister Helen through the door, throwing her to the floor. He motioned to a guard, who dragged the doctor over and set him near the young woman.

  Jamie blinked the sleep from his eyes and sat up as best he could in his bound circumstance.

  The German stayed quiet. His hands shook, the only real evidence of the turmoil beneath the granite emotion. Joys squirmed under the reproach.

  Helen got her feet under her and stood before the man, her chin rising in challenge.

  He accepted her challenge and hit her.

  “Hey,” Jamie said, his heart pounding. “Maybe we can do this without violence?”

  Helen laughed, but it was an awful, tortured sound.

  German pulled a gun and drew down to Jamie’s chest level.

  He lifted his hands even higher. “I mean no trouble.”

  Helen’s father snapped his fingers and his men all pointed their guns at Jamie.

  Jamie sighed. German turned to Helen and spoke rapidly in—what else—German. Great. He should have studied languages…lots of them. Helen responded, anger on her face. The doctor came forward, speaking as well, but in a very crude version of German, stilted and stuttering.

  As the conversation continued, Jamie took in the faces of these three in the stand-off, and a bad feeling grew.

  There had been this family down the street from his, growing up in Tampa, who yelled—a lot. His visits there had been both thrilling and amusing. Yet the yelling had never instigated violence. There’d always been love wrapped up in all that conflict.

  This was nothing like that.

  Helen stepped up to her old man in true face-off form.

  “Shit,” Luke whispered behind him.

  At his word, the room exploded in movement. German grabbed his daughter, while Joys jumped on the man in an effort to get him to let go of her. The gun went off. Jamie ducked even as he heard an oomph from the other side of the room. German had gotten hold of Joys, and Helen was yelling now and hanging from her father’s arm as she tried to pull it loose of the doctor’s throat.

  Jamie’s fear disappeared as the entire situation became a circus. Even the German’s man, who held the AK-47, had lowered his gun and stood staring at the choas.

  Then the front door flew open.

  Bobby ducked in, in full gear. “Freeze, Dirtbags!”

  Heart pounding, Jamie couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy to see the dumbass.

  When German’s man turned his weapon on him, Bobby barked an order, first in English then in German, and the man lowered his gun. Bobby spoke German? Surprise.

  When John and Ranger came in behind him, the room went still.

  “There. That’s better,” Bobby said and grinned at Jamie. “Hey, brother.”

  Chapter Eight

  The room closed in on her in that weird post-knock-out kind of way.

  “Crap.” Kiana blinked her eyes open as pain zinged through her head. Getting to her knees, she carefully shook off the last remnant of unconsciousness. Every movement caused a stabbing straight through her brain. She made it to her butt and leaned against the wall behind her.

  The door stood open. A body lay dead at her feet, blood pooled beneath him.

  She’d come here in case there was bad news, in case Missy lost it, finding out that Jamie had been hurt, or killed. They’d all known this was just as possible as a good outcome.

  “Missy?” Kiana spoke and winced. Where in hell had these guys come from? Were they connected to the snafu in Colombia? What were the odds? She looked around for her phone, patted her pockets, but found nothing. “Shit.”

  On shaky legs, she checked the living room where she’d been sitting before she’d gone to answer the door. Nothing.

  Her heart pounded now as she checked Missy’s bedroom. The closet was open. There were clothes strewn on the bed. They could have been there before, though. She opened the balcony doors, felt the warm rush of night air. Almost midnight, she’d been out too long. Hours. She was going to need her head examined—literally.

  When her search revealed no Missy, Kiana took the stairs down to The Shack’s storefront and offices. She stumbled, her vision blurring around the edges. “Pull it together, girl,” she muttered to herself. “First assignment. A babysitting job, no less.”

  Hawk was going to fire her ass, but good. And she deserved it.

  She picked up the phone behind the counter, relieved to hear a dial tone and then dialed 9-1-1. She gave her information but when they wanted her to remain on the line, she knew she had to call Hawk instead.

  He made the team memorize the number. He understood the need, as well as the modern complacency of using a cell. She didn’t know many numbers. Her grandma’s and her neighbor’s back home, who had been like an aunt.

  “Hey Kiana,” Hawk answered on the first ring.

  She took a deep breath. “Missy’s gone, sir. I’ve got a dead man, shot at close range. And no sign of Missy.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Took a rap to the head, sir. Been out for a while, but I’m alive.” The feeling of shame was as unexpected as the hit had been. “I’m very sorry sir. I don’t know what happened. One minute I went to answer the door, the next I’m waking up, flat on my back, and Missy is gone. The deceased is an unknown. We’ve had no visitors in the hours I’ve been here. Nothing suspicious has happened. Just, the usual tension of waiting. If I’d had any idea—”

  She stopped herself. That was the point. She shouldn’t have assumed anything. “It doesn’t matter. I should have been ready for—”

  “Kiana,” Hawk said firmly, interrupting her. “Malcolm is in the air and on his way to Belize already. Get to a hospital, let them check you out. The police will process the house. They’re going to do this by-the-book. They’re going to take you under guard. The team in Colombia is on the way.”

  Kiana nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Kiana?” He didn’t wait for a response. “It’s Hawk. Or Nathan. Or even Nate. Don’t call me sir.”

  She blew out a breath. “Okay.”

  Pounding on the floor upsta
irs warned her that the police had arrived. She hoped.

  “I better go.” She hung up, pulled out her side arm, and walked slowly back up the stairs. The police called out. Before getting to the top of the stairs, Kiana slid her gun back into its holster, lifted her arms, and entered the foyer.

  The police were unexpectedly calm. They did as Hawk suggested they’d do. They didn’t handcuff her or even make her feel like a criminal. But she sat on the front porch for a long time while they processed the scene.

  Eventually, she had to pee. Seriously, pee. When another officer came out to ask her more questions, she groaned inside. “Please, I need to use the lavatory,” she begged of the young-looking woman.

  Without a word, the woman went back into the house. Kiana wondered if the police in Punta Gorda were always so communicative. She sighed and got up, walked to edge of the porch, and gripped the railing. The door opened behind her, and she turned.

  The dead body came out on a stretcher first.

  Was Missy dead? Had she escaped?

  Kiana knew little about the woman Jamie called his. Maybe he’d been holding her prisoner all these years. Maybe she’d finally planned the perfect escape.

  Being out of touch with the team had her thinking way more than she wanted to about how much she’d failed.

  Missy was gone. A man was dead.

  And she was sitting smack dab in the middle of it all.

  Jesus, some things never changed.

  ***

  The clinic was finally quiet. Doctor Joys was cleaning up. Sister Helen had divested her habit and wore a simple dress. The German, after being subdued, had been taken into custody. Apparently, he was wanted in Argentina. The girl, his daughter, planned to stay at the clinic with Doctor Joys. Lord, have mercy.

  Jamie picked up the last of his gear and left through the front door.

  John and Luke stood close to each other across the yard, Craig under John’s care and sitting on the back of the truck next to them. He went that way, wanting to see that Craig was really okay and feeling ridiculously grateful that no one had died.

  God, he couldn’t wait to get home to Missy.

  Bobby stopped him, waving him over. “We’re headed to P.G.”

  Jamie slowed. “What’s going on?”

  “There was an altercation. Someone broke into the Shack.”

  The world around him ground to a halt…

  “Malcolm is on his way there,” Bobby continued.

  “Where’s Missy?”

  “We don’t know.”

  …and his world fell out from under him.

  His gaze wavered. “What?”

  Bobby gave him a funny look even as his breathing changed. Damn it. What was wrong with him? He couldn’t feel his hands.

  “John,” Bobby said.

  John turned from Craig, but Jamie backed up. He didn’t need a doctor.

  “We’re going to find her, honey,” Marie said.

  A sharp pain struck behind his sternum in the region of his heart, his ability to breathe becoming even more difficult.

  “Jamie.” Bobby’s sharp call and the lights flashing in his vision had Jamie sucking in a breath. “Get him a water, Marie. Don’t go all wimpy on me now, brother.”

  Jamie growled as he took the water offered and gulped it down.

  Missy. “I need to get the hell out of here, right now.”

  “We’re working on that,” Tan said. “Load up. The plane takes off in one hour.” Tan handed him a phone. “Call Malcolm. He’s on site now and tracking what’s going on down there. We’ll get her back.”

  Jamie backed up and nodded to his team, who were all staring at him—pity and concern on their faces. “I just need a minute…” He trailed off, even as he turned from the group and headed for the first piece of solitude he could find—around the corner on the east side of the building, where the shade was just beginning to lengthen across the yard.

  Hidden, he crouched, dropping to the ground and let the adrenaline flow through him. He’d been this close to dying—again. The trembling came, starting in his hands. His head pounded. Nausea rose in his throat.

  He wasn’t a weakling; he was just ready to stop.

  He didn’t want his life cut short. But without Missy…

  Jamie rolled back on his feet and set his butt on the dirt. He leaned his head against the stucco siding and let the stupid-ass weakness drain from him, as the determination and anger took root.

  “Shit,” he said to no one.

  “Let’s go!” Tan called.

  Jamie shook off the fear and braced himself against the unknown.

  There was only one man out there who lived, buried in the back of Jamie’s mind for twelve years. Only one man, who would kill to get his hands on Missy.

  Carlos Martinez.

  Dreams of quitting this life and moving on, of building a boat and sailing the Atlantic, of being home with Missy were all just that—dreams.

  And this was his wake-up call.

  Danger would always be around the next corner.

  Chapter Nine

  The click and whir of the old camera startled the group of men on the darkened street.

  Pounding heart, beating out of her chest, Marguerite hunkered down and ran back toward the opening of the alley. Had they seen her? The tickle at the back of her neck spread through her limbs.

  She dodged through the deserted streets, zig-zagging up alleys and down side roads until she reached the outskirts of town. There, she stopped to breathe, bending over at the waist. Fog circled in, swirled around her, thick like a curtain—suffocating.

  “Marguerite,” a voice called from behind her, faint and distant—familiar. She turned, breathless. A row of six men marched toward her, guns on their shoulders.

  “Marguerite,” the voice called again.

  Sweat dripped down her temple. She lifted the camera—her Nikon—and snapped photo after photo. The men turned to silhouettes, no face distinguishable from another…closer and closer, larger and larger. She turned and ran, her legs pumping and hitting the ground with force. But she went nowhere.

  “Marguerite.”

  “Dad?” she called out, the bite of frustration turning sharply to anger. Then the land dropped out from under her, and she slid down a hill toward fire…and heat. She screamed as brush and trees grabbed at her clothes, her skin, her hair.

  Sirens rent the air. Her heartbeat slowed. Smoke swirled around her, hid her.

  “Run!”

  Jamie’s voice, loud and clear, jerked Missy from her restless sleep.

  Her arm, slung over her head and resting on the window sill of the SUV, had fallen asleep sometime while she slept. Her hand hurt. Her neck was stiff, too.

  Kidnapped by her uncle. This was a development she hadn’t expected. She should feel safe. He was family. Family sticks together.

  She reached for her phone, only to remember, he’d taken it. “What time is it?”

  Tio Antonio glanced back at her through the rearview mirror.

  “Six o’clock.”

  She sat up quickly. They’d been driving all night. “Crap. Did you drug me or something?”

  “No. You sleep like your father. Very soundly. Like the dead.”

  Missy cringed. “Was that a joke?”

  Tio Antonio shrugged his shoulders. “No. Truth.”

  No wonder her body hurt. Stuck in the back seat of this car for the last ten hours. “How much further?”

  “It’ll be awhile. Eight, ten hours?”

  She groaned. “Can we please stop?”

  His eyes narrowed, and he nodded.

  “I wish you’d reconsider what you are doing. My life is in Belize now.”

  “I need you to come back to Veracruz.” He spoke so matter-of-factly. “I won’t let him hurt you.”

  She laughed. “Martinez. The one who killed my father? The one who leads one of the cruelest cartels in Mexico.”

  “It’s gotten better.”

  Her stomach
twisted. “No.”

  Tio Antonio glanced back her again. Just the sight of his eyes through that mirror was giving her the creeps. “Can I please move to the front seat? Then maybe we can talk.”

  When he gave his consent, she climbed over the middle console. Just that movement was enough to stretch her legs out a bit, and she moaned in thanksgiving. She reached back for her bag and dropped it at her feet. She’d grabbed a few things before leaving, as Tio Antonio had suggested, but it was the camera at the bottom that made her heart race.

  The token to her past life had become more of a decoration in her new life, sitting on the shelf. She lifted it out of the bottom of her bag now and fiddled with the settings, her eye on the viewfinder. Long time. Too long?

  “You could think of coming to Mexico as helping bring justice for your father, for the people you once knew.” His eyes were sad. “Think of your grandmother.”

  “That’s not fair,” she said, lowering the camera and frowning. “Guilt? Really?”

  “Life isn’t fair.” His voice was sharp this time. “Your father died, trying to protect you. Your presence will create peace. Martinez thinks he wants you—”

  “And you just want to hand me right over,” she answered. “Perfect.”

  “No, but we are so close to ending his time in power with the coming election.”

  “I have nothing.”

  He nodded at the camera. “You have the photographs.”

  Her throat constricted. “No,” she whispered. “I don’t even have those.” But she feared he was right. There were blacked out parts of her memory from that time. She’d photographed Martinez while working as a young journalist and investigating where she shouldn’t have been. He’d killed.

  She’d witnessed and kept her silence.

  “I’ll keep you safe,” he reiterated.

  She shook her fist at him. “This is what you do now, kidnap and threaten? Nina must be so proud.”

  “Don’t be smart with me. If I hadn’t come, someone else would have—like Ignacio, and you wouldn’t be having this conversation at all. They’d have taken you under the cover of darkness with no real care for your safety.”

  That chilled her. “Well, I guess I’m the lucky one,” she said, sarcasm screaming through the words. Ignoring the spark of anger in his eyes, she crossed her arms over her chest. “If we waited in Belize for Jamie, he could help us.”

 

‹ Prev